Beautiful Little Fool
by Gosangoku
Summary: Arthur, engaged to a woman he doesn't love, is suffocating in his empty life. Suddenly, it doesn't seem so grey when one Alfred F. Jones appears, but he refuses to fall in love with the man. It's too bad hearts aren't good listeners. - USUKUS fifties AU.


**b e a u t i f u l**

**l i t t l e**

**f o o l**

**x.**

**{ **_**g o s a n g o k u **_**}**

**x.**

_every man dies. not every man really lives._

William Wallace

**x.**

"_An overflow of good converts to bad_," said Shakespeare, and whilst I am not inclined to disagree, I've little to base it off of. The place in which I live is filled with bad: phantasmal ghosts of people drifting about with tired smiles hiding malicious intent, pistols concealed beneath pressed suits of who appear to be businessmen, fluttering lashes above glinting eyes as slender hands slid into the waistbands of married men. The world in its entirety consists solely of ominous threats and sinister smiles, but nobody ever notices. Everyone is stuck in their own little world, comforted with thoughts of their self-obsessed reveries, as if they're all narrating their own lives in their biased perspectives. I like to think otherwise, believe that I'm nothing like them, but I'd only be lying to myself if that was the case. I'm just as bad, if not worse, for I know all about the ghosts that plague people's memories and contort their beings, the shady dealings between seemingly wholesome businessmen. I know about all of it.

Yet, I'm hardly any better than those superficial pawns; all I do is sit back, swirling my wine, and watching as they sell themselves and tear themselves apart. I've always been an observer, someone who loitered in the background, a wallflower of sorts, but more of a weed. I suppose I'm the eyes of the world, in my own mind, since I watch so much but don't possess the incentive of selflessness to speak up about all of the despicable things I see. I give the impression of being a two dimensional man who cares little for matters of significance, a reputation built for me solely due to the fact that I'd married a wealthy woman. It makes sense, I suppose. I don't love her at all, at least not in a romantic sense. We had been acquaintances in our youth thanks to our families, but after her brother died during the war, a large part of her just vanished. The little girl with bright eyes I'd once known had died with him, replaced by a frail woman with empty eyes.

I never wanted to marry her. Ever since we were young, although my brothers encouraged the union for money's sake, I found her presence tolerable at best. Perhaps it was idealistic of me to be encouraged by Jane Austen's novels and my own dreams that one day I'd marry someone out of love as opposed to convenience. It didn't necessarily help matters that men frequently regarded me as worthless since I lacked money. I often heard rumours and gossip about me, and I was aware of all the insults that were whispered about me, how I wasn't a real man because I couldn't support my life, amongst more crude comments about my feminised persona.

"Arthur," a sharp voice hissed beside me, and I tore my gaze away from crowds of suited silhouettes to meet the hollow eyes of my wife. She was pale, more ashen than porcelain, and had been for a long while now. She was a frail woman, but not delicate, and was so thin it looked as if she could be snapped in half. She reminded me of spiders and their webs, of camouflaged spindly limbs and dark eyes.

"Mary," I returned unreceptively, continuing to swirl my crimson wine, watching as it danced with circular ripples, and frowning almost imperceptibly when my arm was grabbed and droplets spilt onto my stainless shirt. It looked almost like blood. Mary's skinny fingers dug into my arm, and I almost felt her sharp nails slipping through the material of my blazer, but I didn't react.

"You've been standing there all night," she whispered angrily, dull eyes flashing briefly, and I raised a brow. Once, I had felt sorry for her. Part of me still felt immeasurably guilty for treating her with such unresponsiveness when I knew she was sick. I held back a sarcastic retort and simply inclined my head, suppressing an irked sigh when she forcibly dragged me out of the shadows and into the blinding lights of chandeliers illuminating the marble floors, the jewellery of powdered women glittering beneath the luminosity. I grimaced and tried to avert my gaze, hoping I wouldn't have to converse with anyone. I wasn't the best conversationalist; I was most of a thinker who spoke through his actions. I was eloquent, yes, but not enough to communicate. "Mingle, would you? You're making me look bad."

If it was anyone but Mary, I wouldn't have refrained from responding with cryptic remarks. She could have married far better men than myself: men with charisma, men with money and debonair smiles and spontaneous personalities. Instead, she settled for me, only due to her own insecurities and self-deprecating nature, and I felt responsible for it. Amidst my sneers and jeers and arrogant words, I really felt more like a pathetic little boy in the body of a scarred man, and I couldn't bring myself to hurt her.

"Fine," I agreed, the word escaping my lips as little more than a sigh, and she scowled at me angrily, eyes burning with irritation as if I were out to irk her. Once, in the past, the ire ablaze within her eyes amused me, but nowadays it left me feeling somewhat hollow. She was either a vacant soul, wandering aimlessly and waiting for something that never came, or a furious woman who was pleased by little and convinced that the world was out to get her. Her glower evaporated immediately, replaced by a small smile that seemed so fragile, just like the rest of her, as soon as someone else initiated conversation. She wasn't completely crazy; she simply had manic episodes when something triggered her.

I sighed for the umpteenth time, swirling my drink absently as my eyes scrutinised the crowd of fake people in faux fur and suits and with feigned smiles on their painted faces. Parties always made me feel nauseated, and so to dwell the disappointment in other people I felt, I drank enough to force my thoughts to dissipate so I could vacantly stare at the laughing liars without my self-righteous monologue.

I found my gaze lingering on one man though. He seemed to stand out from the rest. Perhaps he was just like everyone else; a seemingly suave man with a debonair smile and money to spare, but I couldn't help but watch him. He moved with strange fluidity that was difficult to describe. He wasn't so much graceful as charming in an odd way, gliding through the floods of people and never blending in. He wore a suit like all of the other men, but my eyes drank in his form: he had broad shoulders and a strong back, and I briefly wondered if he worked in some sort of manual labour occupation. Judging by the expensive material of his suit and that self-assured grin, I soon contracted that assumption.

His eyes fluttered and his lips quirked into an odd half smile, not genuine but not entirely false either. It was crooked, higher at one side than the other, and little, nearly imperceptible wrinkles formed where his lips lifted. He chuckled and my fingers twitched on my glass, gripping it tighter as I noticed the muscles in his throat work. His skin was so tanned, sun-kissed in a way that made everyone in the room seem ashen in comparison. It was evident instantly that he was not from London, and for whatever reason I found myself wondering where he _was_ from.

The woman he had been conversing with turned away suddenly to stifle an enticing giggle at another man, and the tanned bloke's gaze left her immediately. His shoulders relaxed, hunching almost, and his hands slid into his pockets as he leaned against the wall. He was obviously uninterested by the entire affair, and I couldn't really blame him. I always found these poor excuses for parties stifling and constricted. You were supposed to dance, be surrounded by girls in flapper dresses and constantly surrounded by alcoholic beverages, but these were just time consuming.

His eyes raked over the crowd, a blasé expression on his face, and then paused on me before raising a brow slowly. I blinked in confusion before I felt my face heat up slightly. Brilliant, he caught me staring. He probably thought I was some sort of creepy stalker now. He glanced over at the woman, now completely preoccupied by the other man, before heaving himself off of the wall and easily making his way through the expanse of people congregated in the middle of the great hall.

I felt my heart skip a beat as those smouldering blue eyes met mine, the man's lips already forming that oddly endearing smile, and I tried not to allow my embarrassment to betray me. I took a swig of my drink as he approached and exhaled to calm my sudden burst of adrenaline.

"Hello there, stranger," he murmured casually, waving. I raised a brow at his forthcoming demeanour and tilted my head. His voice… I couldn't decide whether or not it suited him. He looked relatively young, but not enough to be an adolescent. He merely held some sort of reverence that bordered on innocence about him, but those deep blue eyes filled with so much unfathomable stories I didn't know contradicted that. He sounded quite light, but I could tell that his natural voice was quite deep. I couldn't focus for too long on his mesmerising eyes and enchanting voice, however. I felt ashamed of myself for doing so.

"Are you only speaking to me because everybody else here is intolerable?" I enquired brusquely, placing my empty glass on a nearby table and folding my arms loosely. "If that's the case, I can inform you immediately that I'm not the best conversationalist either."

He seemed surprised for a moment, but his eyes were sparkling with mirth. He chuckled and I saw a flash of his white teeth. "You're already better than that lot if you can admit your faults," he replied jovially. I found it unusual; most recoiled from my austerity and made excuses to leave. Someone as youthful as he didn't seem to be one to withstand my harshness.

"I'm actually rather egoistical," I warned him, still dubious of his persona. It was not often that one such as myself immediately noticed someone's positive aspects. In fact, it was commonly the reverse. "I don't often divulge my flaws." Nor did I often admit even that, but for whatever reason this man seemed to entrance me enough to converse so familiarly. It was disconcerting… and it was thrilling.

Contrary to my initial thoughts, he only appeared to be more amused by my disagreeable words. "Well," he said, tilting his head and smiling genially. "You seemed pretty lonesome."

I was taken aback. I hadn't been expecting that. I blinked several times before recollecting myself and frowning at him. "You yourself called me a stranger," I said. "How would you know if I was lonely?"

His smile softened, looking almost gentle now, as if he was gazing at something—something unlike _me_. I felt my heart skip a beat and I exhaled shakily, brows furrowing as I folded my arms tighter. I wasn't sure how I was supposed to react to this… this man with his flowery words and extravagant appearance. Perhaps he recited the same line to various people before myself, hoping to seem different from the rest when he was really just as shallow. But even as those thoughts ran through my mind, I couldn't help but feel that I wasn't quite being true to myself.

"You're alone, for one thing," he stated and then chuckled as if he had made a brilliant joke. I raised a brow, showing him I wasn't amused, whilst telling myself I was right – he was just an idiot.

"Witty fool," I mumbled sarcastically with a roll of my eyes, only to avert my gaze. Why was he staring at me? It was so disconcerting and I felt unbearably exposed before him somehow. I loathed it.

"Better a witty fool than a foolish wit," he retorted.

I turned to stare him again. Had he just referenced Shakespeare? Honestly, I was… surprised, and just a bit pleased, but still somehow resentful, perhaps even more so simply because he kept on proving me wrong. And we'd only known each other for a few minutes. I hated it when people proved me wrong, even if it was more beneficial that way.

He chuckled suddenly, the low sound of baritone laughs escaping his throat making me feel both irked and pleased. His eyes locked back onto mine and I inhaled sharply as he lifted my chin, warm fingertips brushing my skin and sending odd sensations rushing through my body. I managed to scowl at him and he just smirked slightly in response. "For a man, you're quite cute," he said suddenly, and I felt my skin prickle with heat as I tried to think rationally, but damn it, he was so distracting… "Even if your eyebrows are odd."

I emitted a sound of offended surprise and wrenched out of his grasp, glowering irritably at him and folding my arms. No, I was right before – he was a pompous _brat_ who didn't know his place. "You aren't what I'd call perfect either," I snapped in response, positively bristling now.

He grinned impishly and stuffed his hands back in his pockets. "Good," he said, "I wouldn't want to be."

My eyes narrowed slightly as I frowned deeply at him, trying to scrutinise the man. He seemed so earnest, and yet he was the strangest man I'd ever met. I hadn't known him for very long, and yet I was enraptured by him, compelled to learn more and I had no idea why. "Say," I said, trying not to muse over his words for too long, or think about why he wouldn't stop looking at me so fixatedly. "What's your name, anyhow?"

His lips twitched into something resembling a smirk, and he took a hand out of his pocket to lean against the wall. He wasn't too much taller than me, but he seemed to loom over me. Perhaps that was partially because my knees had almost buckled beneath me when he got so close, his breath ghosting over my lips, and I absently licked them, only aware of it when his eyes flashed down and back up again. I felt heat rise in my face again and planted my hands firmly against the walls, glowering furiously at him to mask my embarrassment and whatever else it was that I didn't want to identify.

"Alfred F. Jones," he murmured lowly, voice dropping an octave and practically _reverberating_ now that I'd tuned out the rest of the room. I bit the inside of my cheek and tried to continue glaring at him through the sudden haze that clouded my mind. "You'd better remember it."

_Oh,_ I thought, suddenly feeling competitive. _If that's the way he wants to play it, I've never been one for turning down a good game…_ Leaning fully against the wall and tilting my head slightly, raising my brows as I replicated his crooked smirk, I drawled, "I only remember people worth _remembering_…" I lifted a hand to touch his cheek and then slid it down his neck, feeling more entertained than I had been in a long time. "Jones," I added in a haughty whisper, leaving him looking rather stunned as I pushed aside his arm to disappear into the crowd of people, not nearly as irked as I had been before that impromptu meeting.

Somehow, I had a feeling Jones was worth remembering.

**x.**

_**Axis Powers Hetalia**_** belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.**

**I wasn't entirely sure where to end this introduction to be honest, but it seemed fine leaving it there for now. This is merely the prologue, hence why it's relatively short despite having spent bleeding ages on it.**

**I wasn't sure about this fifties AU. Firstly, let me say I'm going to write it as if it's fairly modern. From my experience, when I've read stories set in diverse periods of time, there are several mistakes which I fear committing, along with the fact that I don't want to confuse anyone, particularly if I make terrible errors. However, I will try to ensure that it's obvious this is set in the 1950s.**

**Also, it **_**should**_** be obvious that this is in Arthur's perspective. :| And I wonder if anyone will notice the little reference in the title. ouo**

**I hope you'll enjoy it. c:**


End file.
